


Mundane Hazards

by fluffyquill



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abduction, Child Abduction, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Kidnapping, Mr. and Mrs. Dowling actually aren't bad parents, Nanny Ashtoreth is a force to be reckoned with, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Parental Feels, Protective Aziraphale, Protective Crowley, crowley is soft for children, ineffable husbands, mentions of eldritch!Crowley and eldritch!Aziraphale, this is the life of a diplomat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 08:08:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20597498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffyquill/pseuds/fluffyquill
Summary: It was only a matter of time, really.  They couldn't protect him forever.





	Mundane Hazards

They are in a Tesco when they see the broadcast.

It has been about six months since the Abotchalypse, and Crowley and Aziraphale have fallen into an easy routine of going about their usual business. Tempting and blessing until they meet up for lunch, after which they spend the rest of the afternoon at the bookshop. After dinner, they retire to Crowley’s flat for a nightcap and some late night reading.

Stacks of books are slowly accumulating in Crowley’s office, possibly enough to warrant a shelf.

It is all very domestic.

And now, on a not so remarkable Friday, they are discussing which crêperie to sample for lunch when the program playing overhead cuts out to a title screen for the local news station.

“Breaking news today from the US Embassy,” the anchor announces, “Warlock Dowling, the eleven-year old son of US Ambassador Thaddeus Dowling, was abducted earlier today while attending an unveiling event with his parents. Sources say that the culprits are members of an association opposed to the Ambassador’s recent support for…”

Whatever else she says becomes static in Crowley’s ears. All he can see is Warlock’s photo on the screen. He remembers having to coerce the boy into sitting still for that particular shot. It was supposed to be a formal family portrait, which required that Warlock wear a suit and tie and have his hair combed – which he hated. The suit was too itchy and the tie was choking him –

_I hate this tie. I hate these stupid photos. I hate that you’re leaving._

_I don’t like it either, dear, but you’re going to be eleven soon and you won’t need me anymore._

_But I do! Mom and Dad don’t love me! Not like you do!_

_They do love you, little prince. They just… have a hard time showing it._

“ – owley… Crowley!”

He blinks. He vaguely registers Aziraphale’s hand on his arm.

“We’ll come back later,” the angel urges, “Come on.”

It doesn’t take them long to find out where they’re holding him.

After a few well-placed calls to Anathema, who is able to pinpoint his precise location at an old bed and breakfast south of Croyden, they arrive to see a “condemned” sign on the front gate.

“There,” Aziraphale whispers, spotting the barn to the rear of the plot.

The sun is beginning to set, dipping just so behind the tall trees.

Crowley removes his glasses.

~@~@

Warlock remains silent the entire ride back to the estate. The police escort who’s sitting in the car with him attributes his silence to trauma and doesn’t push him to talk. Instead, she presses a cup of cocoa into his hands and hands him her business card, should he ever need a friendly ear.

But the boy is quiet and contemplative, staring mutely out the window at the passing night scenery.

His first kidnapping.

Kind of surreal.

And frankly, weird as shit.

He’d been gagged and blindfolded, so he hadn’t seen much. But he vividly remembers the clang and creak of the barn door opening and soft footsteps – oddly familiar – and a rather posh, male voice saying, “Release the boy.”

The men had laughed, calling him all sorts of crass names. Names that not even Nanny approved of.

“I will tell you nicely one last time. Release the boy.”

They’d stopped laughing, followed by the sound of numerous clicks of guns being held at the ready. Warlock had done his best not to flinch.

“Think it be best if y’leave, mate.”

Then, all the ambient noise around them had fallen absolutely silent. No crickets, no sheep in the distance, no rustle of the wind through the trees. The hairs at the back of Warlock’s neck immediately stood on end.

“We did warn you.”

And the barn exploded into chaos.

The ropes binding his hands had fallen away and Warlock immediately threw himself to the ground to avoid any bullets. He scrabbled to get the blindfold off and crawled towards the open door. One of the men had tried to grab him, but then something dark and huge knocked him over, pulling him screaming back into the black depths of the barn.

“RUN, WARLOCK!”

He’d run to the nearest store, about ten minutes down the road, which happened to be a small petrol station with a police car parked out front. The officer had recognized him immediately, and after making sure the surrounding area was safe, she brought him to the police station. However, to their surprise, the kidnappers were already there in holding. Each and every one of them was severely scratched up and babbling about giant snakes and chimera monsters with hundreds of eyes, but otherwise none the worse for the wear. One of them in particular was clasping a cross necklace, his eyes clenched tight as he shakily repeated some prayer over and over.

Surreal, indeed.

The car hits a bump in the road, and some of the cocoa, now cold, splashes from the cup onto his hand, jerking him back to the present.

The officer catches his eye, and he looks at her.

“What?” he asks.

She smiles tightly at him. “It’s just that my big sister has a boy your age. If anything happened to him, she’d tear up the whole country to get him back. Can’t imagine how worried your parents must be.”

He merely shrugs, turning his attention back to the window.

He can’t imagine his mother doing anything like that.

Nanny might have. She’d have burnt the whole world down to find him.

But Nanny is gone.

It’s been over six months since she and Brother Francis left, and he likes to think that the two of them ran off together. He wonders if she saw the news and what she’s doing now.

They pull up to the residence, and before the car has even come halfway up the drive, they see Harriet Dowling tearing out of the house.

“WARLOCK! WARLOCK!!”

Somehow, she manages to outrun every one of the secret service agents bolting after her as she hurtles towards the vehicle like the hounds of hell are chasing her down.

“Stop the car!” the officer shouts. Before it even comes to a complete stop, Warlock clambers out, tripping over his feet as he runs to meet her. His heart is aching, and tears well up in his eyes.

“Mom! Mom!!”

_She was worried – she really was worried – _

Harriet skids to her knees, tearing the fabric of her expensive track pants, scooping her son into her arms. Her hair is askew and her normally immaculate makeup is a mess.

“Warlock! Warlock, my baby, my baby,” she weeps, kissing his face repeatedly. “Oh Warlock, my sweet boy…”

He sniffs. His eyes water and his nose begins to run.

“Mom…”

“Oh honey, are you all right?” she asks, wiping his face gently with her sleeve and smoothing his long hair out of his eyes. Her dark eyes quickly scan him over for any injuries. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

He shakes his head. “M’okay.”

The officer steps out of the car with a wide smile.

“Hardly a scratch on ‘im, ma’am,” she reassures her. “Just a few scrapes on his hands that’ve already been seen to.”

She kisses his cheek again with a relieved sob, standing up and lifting him into her arms like he is still six years old.

“I’m so glad you’re all right,” Harriet coos, and Warlock presses his face into the crook of her neck. The smell of her expensive shampoo and Burberry perfume isn’t quite the comforting scent of peonies and brimstone he’s seeking, but it soothes his nerves just a bit.

“I love you, Mom,” he mumbles wetly into her collar, and her arms tighten around him.

“I love you too, sweetie.” Several more kisses are planted onto his head. “So, so much.”

The officer bids them good night and the agents usher them back into the house. Harriet doesn’t once move to put him down. There’s something in the clutch of her arms that dares anyone to try and take her son from her, at the risk of having their face clawed off.

As they enter the house, several of the staff members began to cry and clap upon seeing him safe in his mother’s arms.

Now, Warlock is able to see in proper lighting just how awful his mother looks. There are bags under her bloodshot eyes, and her mascara has run down her face. But she looks at him with such love and relief that he can’t find it in him to poke fun at her.

“God, I could use a hot chocolate,” she groans. “How about it? Do you want one?”

He finds it a bit odd, as his mother usually drinks brandy or wine when she’s had a rough day. But she sounds genuine, and he’s about to answer yes when there’s a commotion outside and the front door slams open.

Harriet’s arms tighten impossibly further around him, but quickly relax when they see Mr. Dowling stumble into the foyer, flanked by more agents.

The man seems unable to form words. (A notable feat, to be certain. Brother Francis once commented that he would eat his hat the day Thaddeus Dowling stopped talking.) His face is unshaven, haggard and worn, and the gray in his hair is more pronounced. Momentarily, he freezes in the entryway. He seems entranced by the sight of his wife and son, like it’s a mirage that’ll disappear the second he moves closer.

But Thaddeus blinks out of his stupor, and in three strides, he comes to stand next to his family, his focus solely on Warlock. His blue eyes look distant and sad. Warlock fidgets, unused to being at the center of his father’s attention.

Thaddeus says not a word, but places a small kiss to the top of the boy’s head, and lets out a small sigh of relief. Warlock cuddles closer to his mother, resting his head on her shoulder, but he does reach out to fist one hand in his father’s rumpled suit jacket.

“We were gonna get some hot chocolate,” he mumbles softly, “Did you want one too?”

Barking out a single, somewhat hysterical laugh, Thaddeus nods, rubbing a callused hand over Warlock’s cheek. “Sounds great.”

Harriet beams, and his parents share a brief, happy kiss before they all head towards the kitchen.

~@~@

Back in Soho, Aziraphale busies himself with cleaning the curio cabinets that house his snuffbox collection when the phone rings. It’s well past closing time, creeping up on two in the morning.

“Hello?”

There’s a brief pause on the other end.

_“H-Hello? I’m looking for Ms. Lilith Ashtoreth. Uh, please? She… she gave me this number a-and…”_

The angel nearly drops the box he’s holding. He sputters for a moment, only just remembering to use Brother Francis’s voice.

“Warlock? Young master Warlock, is that you me boy?” He turns to shout over his shoulder to where Crowley had sequestered himself on the couch in the back with several bottles of wine. “Lilith! Lilith, get down ‘ere!”

Crowley is already scrambling towards him, stumbling over a box of folios and swearing colorfully.

“Is that him? Is that him?” he hollers, his voice getting shriller as his voice box alters slightly. Crowley all but snatches the phone from Aziraphale’s hands, knocking his sunglasses off as he slams the receiver to his ear.

“Warlock?”

_“Hi Nanny. Sorry it’s so late.”_

Crowley’s legs give out from under him so suddenly, he briefly wonders if he transformed into a snake on reflex. Stepping close, Aziraphale miracles him a cushy chair, helping him settle down into it.

“Oh… Oh, Warlock…”

He’s crying before he can even think to stop the tears from coming.

“Oh my little prince, I’ve been so worried…”

“Absolutely beside ‘erself,” chimes Aziraphale from over Crowley’s shoulder.

_“I’m sorry, Nanny.”_

“No need to be sorry, my dear.” He takes the handkerchief that Aziraphale offers him and wipes his eyes. “Francis and I saw the broadcast this morning. You’re not hurt, are you?”

_“No, I’m all right.”_

Crowley wants desperately to hold him. To cradle him close and soothe the boy’s fears as well as his own. But he can hear the ease in Warlock’s voice, and he relaxes a little better, knowing that Mr. and Mrs. Dowling are there for their son, as they should be. So, he settles back into Aziraphale’s arms, listening to their charge relay the day’s events. And, an hour later, when it comes time to let Warlock finally get some sleep, he wishes the boy the sweetest dreams, imparting a small miracle into his words. Warlock yawns into the phone.

_“I love you, Nanny.”_

He’s about to jokingly chide him about using four-letter-words, but instead, Crowley smiles.

“I love you too, my little prince.”

**Author's Note:**

> I mean, not all dangers need be occult or ethereal in nature, right?


End file.
